


Say "Yes" to the Dress!

by Bodhicitta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodhicitta/pseuds/Bodhicitta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not good at all aspects of wedding planning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this has already been done. I couldn't resist.
> 
> 7/5/16 - This is incomplete (very) and will undergo at least one major edit. I decided to go ahead and publish it because I always forget my drafts, and they get deleted after one month!  
> 7/31 - had to change the rating. 'Cause Sherlock is insatiable, and greedy, that's why!

"Molly, Sherlock has something to say to you."

Sherlock stared straight ahead at the therapist.   _43 years old.  Married female, reformed alcoholic, two cats, one decaying dog, four children (not a huge fan of birth control).  Plays the flute in a community band on weekends.  Husband will file for divorce in 7 weeks._

"Stop. Deducing. The Therapist.  Sherlock."  Molly muttered, not turning her head to face him, instead keeping her eyes trained on the picture of Ghandi hanging on the wall behind the therapist's head.

Sherlock muttered "I'm not," in protest, and then stopped deducing the therapist, looking instead at his shoes, the window frame, the dusty bookshelf, anything but the therapist, or her blasted yellow notepad filled with the horrible things he had done over years, or the angry woman seated next to him who stared straight ahead and refused to turn her warm, abnormally large chocolate brown eyes in his direction.

The yawing silence was only broken by the ticking of the five year old clock that the therapist's colleague had given her at her last assignment (a home for troubled teens - she had done exceptional work with a 14 year old named Samantha).  

"Sherlock?"

He turned his face abruptly to look at the therapist.  From the corner of his eye, he could tell that Molly was still staring straight ahead.  

He had a lot to answer for.

"Your clock's battery is going to die in three months."

The therapist cocked one disapproving eyebrow.

"Must I?"

The therapist barely nodded her assent, encouraging.

As if gagging on cotton balls, Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.  He managed to croak out, "I'm sorr..."

But before he could even finish, Molly turned herself bodily in her chair to face him.

"No, that is not good enough!"  

The therapist gasped.

"I am not inclined to hear your 'sorries,'" Molly continued.  "We are way past 'sorry.'  I am not entering into a lifelong union with someone who placates me and dismisses my concerns," she choked back tears, "and doesn't care about me!"

Sherlock gulped to see her emotions so raw and on the surface.  "I never said I didn't care about you."

"It's my turn to speak!" she yelled.

Sherlock shrank down in his chair.  

"No, actually it's Sherlock's turn."

Sherlock found himself shockingly grateful at the therapist's intervention. Maybe she wasn't entirely useless.

How had they come to this pass.  Huddled in a therapist's bizarrely dark office (was that meant to calm people down?  Because it was making Sherlock feel very agitated). The irritating strains of sitar music in the background, the revolting odor of lavender and other allegedly calming scents flooding the stagnant air.  When instead, they should be enjoying the sex holiday Sherlock had so meticulously planned, down to the private tour of New York's main CSI lab.  He knew Molly was going to squeal like a, well, like a 33 year old woman in the proverbial world famous pathology lab.  Well...maybe not proverbial....


	2. Chapter 2

"Molly.  Wake up."  That firm voice, so sexy, so commanding, so deep.  Ordinarily, she was helpless before it, like a pliant volunteer under the spell of a hypnotist.  But she had not had eight solid hours of sleep a night in ages, and she had today off, and Sherlock had kept her up _all_ night.  So demanding, so insatiable....like a spoilt child.  It was only after she explained to him that she was going to be very, _very_ sore that he allowed her to suck him off until he completed.  And that had to have been four in the morning!

Molly turned onto her back, drew the sheet up over her head, and pretended to still be asleep.  She knew he could determine her actual wakefulness based on her core temperature and the typical patterns of her sleep cycles, which he had been charting in an app which he himself had developed.  Most of all, if Toby began licking her face Sherlock knew that she was not in fact asleep.  And Toby was trying to lick her face.

"Wake up, Miss Hooper."

"Oh, my God, Sherlock!  It's so early, and I'm so sleepy."

"Get up, now!"

Molly could see his shadowy form through the pale green sheet.  His long limbs interrupted the light streaming through the window and made it seem like a wraith was re-decorating their bedroom.  She thought she detected him moving toward the bathroom, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor.  It was a ruse - suddenly he ripped the top sheet off of her and was straddling her.

"Aargh," she protested.  "It's too early for sex - even for you!"

"Molly..." he warned.

"No, Sherlock.  I said no!"

Suddenly she felt two large, firm, masculine hands on her ankles.  He was dragging her out of bed by her legs!!  She found herself on the floor.  He stepped directly over her with his praying mantis legs and looking up, she could see was that he completely naked, his prodigious manhood and accompanying accoutrements on full display at a most clinical angle.

"Wow, that's a view you don't get every day!" she muttered.

"You like it well enough,"  he said with a smirk.  He marched over to her wardrobe and started rifling through her clothes and flinging them not so much at her as on her.  He then began to loot her closet, yanking a pair of her trousers and a t-shirt off of their hangers.  These, too, were catapulted in her general direction.

"Um, what are you doing?" she yawned, sleepily peeling her pink polka-dotted underwear off of her head.

Sherlock turned to her, holding out a jumper - a jumper he detested - and using that jumper to punctuate his words, he implored her, "Get. Dressed."

She had a moment of panic.  Were they in danger?  She started to pull on the clothing frantically.  

"Molly, calm down, I can hear your heart beating from across the room."  He dropped a handful of socks to the floor and walked over to her slowly, calmly.  He even managed to crack a bit of a smile.

She stopped buttoning her shirt.  "You scared me."

He knelt down to perch next to her, chuckled at how she had button her shirt incorrectly, and he made to undo and redo it properly.  Even though he was in earnest about her need to get dressed quickly, he couldn't resist just one, quick taste of the hollow near her clavicle, delicious like peaches and cream ("yes, but the cliche is true, Miss Hooper!") and her breasts were too inviting and fit perfectly in the palm of his hand and just under her breast smelled like basil for some reason and _tasted_ like heaven. 

After he had thoroughly undressed her and pushed her back onto the bed, he pulled her panties off (quickly smelling them and then tossing them over his shoulder), took his cock in hand and prepared to ravage her.

She placed her hand on his lower belly, twirling her fingers in the soft curls there, which made his eyes roll into the back of his head. "Wait," she whispered.

"Wait?" He asked, shaking the impertinence off like a droplet of water.  "Are you being serious?"

"Why did you drag me out of bed and force-dress me?"

"Not now."  He licked two fingers on his free hand and quickly moistened her folds.

"Okay, that's nice and all, but..."  And he was inside her.  For some reason she burst into laughter.  He frowned.  "Don't laugh!  You're pushing me out!"

This made her laugh even more, so he had to begin his exertions faster and more passionately than he might have otherwise planned.  "Wow, whoa, Sherlock, that's a bit...rough," she sighed, and allowed herself to be borne away by his ador.

He reached both his arms under her knees and pulled her up into his groin.  "You're not laughing now, are you?" he exulted, pistoning his hips into her with a passion approaching indecency.  Each of his thrusts moved her bodily up the bed.  She would forgive him this masculine braggadocio, because after all, he was quite splendid.  And he would whisper the most lovely things into her ear, things that would make any woman swoon.

He spent himself quickly, almost angrily, a grimace on his face.  And then he collapsed on her, and rather than rolling off, he just allowed his weight to press her into the bed.  With any other lover, she would have demanded he get off of her, but she liked being so thoroughly entrapped by his weight, and his gangly limbs, she just let his satiety sink into her and it felt like contentment.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" he asked the pillow.

"Why did you try to make me get dressed so fast earlier?"

"Oh, crap.  Get up, get up, we have to get dressed."

Not this again.  Molly sat up in bed, crossed her legs, and wrapped the sheets around her.  "What is going on?"  

Sherlock knelt next to her, confused.  He looked off towards the window, then looked down.  So many cases, and this constant, distracting woman and her breasts and her _vagina_ , and that cat and then there's John and Mary and the baby and so many goldfish it was impossible to keep track of it all and of course the ever present gnawing withdrawal that only Molly could soothe with her caresses and John could keep him right but Molly...and she's staring at me right now and she wants an answer.

_"Oh, we're getting married today."_

"We're _what_?"  Now it was her turn to push him off into the floor.  "We're - we?" she sputtered, pointing back and forth between her chest and his general vicinity.  "Getting married.  You...and me?"

"Yes, Molly," he sighed, rolling his eyes, "it's what people do when they've been having penetrative sexual intercourse and don't want to keep using prophylactic and....do keep up."  He ran into the bathroom to clean himself up.  "You know I can't abide idiocy,"  Sherlock shouted through the door. 

"It's what people do?"

"Yes."  He came back into the bedroom, tucking his shirt into his trousers.  "Where did you put my phone?"

"Well, not this people."

"Huh?"

"You said, _'it's what people do.'_  Well, not this people."

Sherlock froze.  "You're trying to tell me that you - you! - don't want to get married?"

Molly met his incredulous gaze with one frightfully stoney look of her own.

"Oh."  This was one deduction he had gotten very, very wrong.

 


End file.
